


every single soul's looking for heaven

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Drunken Confessions, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, gratuitous kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28475865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: Geralt shoves his face into Jaskier’s shoulder and whispers, gently, against his skin, “I love you.”-Geralt gets drunk off a brew of witch's wine and says a little bit more than he ought to.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 329





	every single soul's looking for heaven

**Author's Note:**

> starting 2021 off with a bit of self-indulgence. happy new year!!! <3

By the time Jaskier finishes his set and returns to the dark corner booth, Geralt has drunk himself into inebriation if the nine empty mugs of the witch’s wine he was gifted is to go by. And this is the good stuff—nobody brews wine quite like a mean witch.

Jaskier smiles. “Enjoying yourself, my dear?” he asks as he slides into the booth opposite Geralt, setting his lute on the table.

“Immensely,” Geralt replies, nudging Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier loves his witcher like this—wonderfully free of his inhibitions and enjoying a well-deserved bit of relaxation. It’s similar to the way he is at Kaer Morhen, which is a joy to see every winter. “Here. Have some wine. I know your throat is probably—” Geralt’s sentence is interrupted by a hiccup and he giggles, “—hurts.”

Jaskier waves the mug of wine away with a tired smile. “No, thank you, darling. I have enough self-preservation to know not to dally with wine brewed by a witch. I’ll stick to ale.”

He signals the barmaid for a mug of ale; she nods and flounces over with the drink and a small bowl of thick stew that doesn’t look terribly bad and smells decidedly better than that one batch from Gors Velen that had both he and Geralt retching on the side of the road.

“Suit yourself.” Geralt shrugs, reaching for the bottle of wine he saved for Jaskier. “I liked—” another hiccup, just as endearing as the first, “—your song.”

Jaskier raises a brow. “Which one?” he asks, teasingly, and gives his witcher all his attention. He doubts Geralt could name three of his songs sober let alone as drunk as he is now. 

Geralt’s grin is feral, teeth and all. “All of them.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, Jask.” He nods wildly, so hard the leather tie around his hair loosens and some bone-white strands slip free and whip his face. “Jask. Jask.” He reaches out and finds Jaskier’s hands with his, caressing his fingertips along the callouses and scars on Jaskier’s palms. “I love everything you sing.”

Jaskier heats from the inside out. He wishes desperately to be able to believe the delightful words coming from Geralt’s mouth, but they’ve been friends for nearly three decades and, through all they have been given and had taken away, Geralt has never seemed to view Jaskier’s profession quite as happily as he is now.

He clears his throat. “The wine is talking for you,” he decides, a reminder to himself that Geralt is not his to have, and slips his hands free of Geralt’s grasp as he leans away and begins to eat the stew before him.

Geralt looks at Jaskier hands longingly, as if he’s missing something dear to his heart. “Nope,” he says, grinning crookedly. “‘M not drunk.”

“My darling, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Geralt tries to focus on the three fingers that Jaskier is holding in front of him; the dim light coming from the lanterns above is enough illumination for Jaskier to see Geralt’s honey-yellow eyes cross as he attempts to focus. “Lots.”

Jaskier shrugs and laughs a little. “You aren’t wrong,” he replies, ignoring the way Geralt beams at him for the slight bit of praise. “Have you eaten?”

“The only thing I want to eat is you.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Geralt.” It’s a warning, more for himself than Geralt—he needs to remember that a drunk man’s words are, in fact, not a sober man’s thoughts, no matter how he wishes they were.

“Jaskier,” Geralt parrots, joyously exasperated and slurred, just a little bit. “Jaskier, Jaskier, Jask.” Geralt puts his elbows on the table and lays his chin in his hands, cradling his own face as he stares strangely at Jaskier. “I love your name.”

Jaskier lays his spoon down and stands, finished with his meal. “I think it’s time we get you to bed,” he announces, taking a long gulp of his ale before sliding from the booth and offering his hand to Geralt.

Still sitting, Geralt is shorter than Jaskier; he looks up and blinks, and the lantern light catches the shadow of his lashes and makes his eyes look like liquid honey. He grins and reaches forward to curl his fingers in the loops of Jaskier’s breeches. “Are you coming?”

Jaskier detangles Geralt’s fingers from his breeches lest his pants fall or the patrons of the tavern happen to get the wrong idea. “I suppose.” He’s finished his set and got his stomach full; there isn’t anything left for him and, truthfully, he’s rather tired himself. “Come here, wrap your arm around my shoulders and lean on me.”

Geralt pouts. “I’m heavy.”

“Yes.” Jaskier slings his arm around Geralt’s waist. “And I’m rather stronger than you seem to think. Come on.”

Geralt’s petulant expression worsens. “I know you’re strong,” he says, doing as he was instructed and putting his arm across Jaskier’s shoulders. He’s heavy, as he said, and perhaps he gives Jaskier a bit too much of his weight, but Jaskier is no stranger to lugging his witcher around. “You surprise me everyday.”

Jaskier ignores the odd compliment and leads Geralt toward the stairs. “Watch your step, dear.”

“M’kay.”

It’s a slow, stilted process, helping Geralt ascend the stairs. He wants to stop and toy with the holes in the wall, audibly wondering what it was that caused such a large indention, and he nearly causes Jaskier’s heart to give out every time he stumbles when the toe of his boot catches on the lip of one of the steps.

Eventually, though, Jaskier has Geralt up the stairs and around the corner, down the corridor toward the door of their shared room. He hurries to turn the knob and walk the both of them inside; he sits Geralt down on the foot of the only bed in the room and flutters about for a moment, lighting the lamps and drawing the curtain back to let in a bit of moonlight. It’s early autumn, and if the two of them are to share a bed, as they often do, the bit of midnight chill won’t be a problem.

Once the room is adequately lit, Jaskier turns to Geralt. “Do you need help taking off your armor?” he asks, and then frowns. “What am I saying? Of course you do.” He walks toward Geralt and pulls him to stand. “Up, up. Let’s get you out of this and then you can sleep.”

He makes quick work of the fastenings, decades of muscle memory allowing him to divest Geralt of his armor in under a minute. And thank the gods, honestly, because Geralt is warm, and he smells sharp, like campfire smoke and wind and something unique, rich and dark and fresh, and beneath his fingers, Geralt’s chest rumbles with his laughter, and Jaskier can only take so much, dammit.

“You’re finished,” he says, gathering the armor up and putting it away next to the swords. Geralt will want it easily found in the morning, just in case the slip they gave Nilfgaard a few days ago wasn’t as thorough as they expected.

Geralt watches Jaskier with an unusual furrow in his brow. “You’re so kind to me,” he muses, softly, like the sound of the breeze blowing against the curtains.

“You deserve it,” Jaskier replies, dipping his hands in the lukewarm water of the basin.

“Do I?”

“Absolutely.” He splashes the water up on his face once, twice, three times before rising and wiping dry with a surprisingly smooth towel. He turns away from the cloudy mirror and meets Geralt’s lidded gaze. “I’ve never met a better man than you.”

Geralt shows his teeth. “Not a man.”

Jaskier strides forward and stops in front of Geralt, between Geralt’s spread legs.“You are,” he begins, bringing the towel up to wipe the sweat from Geralt’s brow, “the best man I have ever known.”

Geralt brings his hands up and presses both of them against Jaskier’s chest; the touch is muted through his doublet and chemise, but, still, it’s a shock. “You’re not lying,” he says, awed, as if he never chose to believe all the words of glory that Jaskier has spoken to him. 

“No.” Jaskier shakes his head and smiles. He tosses the rag to the side and removes Geralt’s hands from his chest. “Lie back and I’ll remove your boots.”

Geralt does so with dramatic movements, flopping backward so hard he bounces just a bit. This brings a bright giggle from Geralt; Jaskier can’t help but add to it because Geralt is wonderful like this, so free and sweet and ethereal, almost child-like. It’s lovely and humbling to behold.

“Oh, that tickles,” Geralt says as Jaskier drags off the first boot. “Do it again.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and removes the second boot. “I’m not playing with your feet.” Even he has his limits, as unbelievable as that may be.

“That’s rude.”

Jaskier huffs. “What’s the truth, then, darling?” He steps back and puts his hands on his hips. “Am I kind to you or rude to you?”

Geralt is nearly silent, almost reverent, when he says, “You are the best person to me.”

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Jaskier barks a forced laugh and shakes his head. “Your head is going to hurt in the morning,” he says, changing the subject. He’s good at that—talking, with little being said at all. 

Geralt rolls around on the bed until he’s on his stomach, haphazardly sprawled across the bed, spread eagle and still dressed in his leather breeches and black cotton shirt. That’s fine; Jaskier isn’t sure he has the sanity to touch Geralt’s body and strip him to his smallclothes in this state. “Prob’ly.” He shrugs, hiccups, and laughs. “But you’ll be here to help me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Jaskier promises, his chest pleasantly warm. He rounds the bed and kicks off his boots, shrugs off his doublet, untucks his chemise, pushes down his breeches. “Go to sleep now, Geralt.”

Geralt moves over to make space for Jaskier in the bed. “I don’t want to.”

Jaskier settles against the mattress, sighing as its worn cradle forms around his tired body like an embrace. “And why not?” he asks, lolling his head to the side so he may meet Geralt’s eyes. 

Like this, drunk and bright-eyed from lack of sleep, Geralt looks dashing, like a warrior and a hero and a knight, one and all, who has just returned from battle. He is breathtaking, and then he smiles, toothily, and Jaskier’s heart takes up a new rhythm in his chest. “‘Cause then I gotta stop looking at you.”

Jaskier goes hot. “Flatterer,” he teases, just a little breathless.

“Is it working?”

_Yes, it is._

Instead, Jaskier urges, “Sleep,” and shuts his eyes, hoping Geralt will follow his lead and do the same. Tomorrow is going to be hellacious—Geralt in a hurry is a terrible thing, but Geralt hungover and in a hurry is something entirely otherworldly. If Jaskier’s to deal with Geralt’s surly ass in the morning, he needs at least five untroubled hours of rest.

“If you insist.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch into a tiny smile. “I do.”

For a moment, they are silent. Geralt’s breathing is heavy—that is, heavy for him, just audible for Jaskier—and he sighs, forlornly, and shifts about until he is not as sprawled as he was before. He moves onto his side, flush against Jaskier’s shoulder and curled up into a ball half his size. There’s a low simmer of heat in the pit of Jaskier’s tummy for two reasons—that Geralt still sleeps like a child, like Ciri often does, and that Geralt trusts Jaskier to see him this vulnerable and unguarded.

Geralt calms and ceases movement; the breeze from the window is somewhat cold, but with Geralt at his side, Jaskier is warm and content and knows that dreamless sleep is going to take him in a matter of moments.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier hums. “Yes, dear heart?”

Geralt shoves his face into Jaskier’s shoulder and whispers, gently, against his skin, “I love you.”

Jaskier’s heart stutters, horribly, in his chest. “What?” he asks, quietly, disbelief coloring his tone. 

Geralt shuffles impossibly closer, until he is nearly on top of Jaskier. “You’re my greatest friend, my most precious companion,” he says, like it’s so easy to confess something so devastatingly glorious, and he sounds implicitly sober, suddenly, as if he were never drunk and babbling at all. “I don’t deserve you, but, by the gods, I want you.”

He presses his face closer, then, and drags his mouth across the side of Jaskier’s throat; his lips are dry, and they catch and pull, and it makes Jaskier’s breaths seize. He can hardly breathe: his mind is spinning and his heart is racing and he can’t draw in a full breath because Geralt is on his chest and Geralt loves him.

Geralt _loves_ him?

Jaskier chokes out, “Geralt—”

“G’night, Jask,” Geralt halts Jaskier’s disjointed thoughts. “Love you lots.”

Like the snuff of a flame, Geralt is asleep, breathing evenly and steadily against Jaskier’s throat; his breath is hot and humid, and Jaskier’s skin begins to sweat, even with the chill of the breeze, even with this mountain of a man on top of him, and he knows surely that he is not going to be able to rest any time soon.

*

When the first rays of yellow-white sunlight filter through the moth-eaten curtains and splay across Geralt’s face, his brows furrow and his nose crinkles and he turns away from the new day with a groan.

“My head is pounding,” he complains into the pillow he’s pushed his face in.

From his seat on the windowsill, Jaskier smiles. “I’m not surprised,” he says, chuckling. “You drank entirely too much of that witch’s wine, my dear.”

“Gods.” Geralt groans rather loudly and rubs his face in the scratchy fabric of the cotton covering the pillow. “Fuck.” He rolls back over and blinks awake, meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “Did I do anything?”

“Why would you think you’ve done something?” Jaskier grins. “Geralt, are you hiding stories of a young witcher who can’t handle his liquor?”

“Now is not the time to joke with me.”

Jaskier sighs. After lying awake for hours, only getting a minuscule amount of rest, Jaskier reasoned that he may be able to act as if nothing happened at all, as if Geralt didn’t admit to Jaskier that he’s in love with him. But Geralt has wrecked his plans, as he always tends to do, it seems, by waking up and immediately demanding to know what went on.

“Yes, Geralt,” he admits. “You did something.”

“Tell me,” Geralt orders, harshly, and then, once he sees the look on Jaskier’s face, says, softly, Please, Jaskier.”

Jaskier draws in a large breath; it’s better to get this over with as quick as he can. “You said that you love me,” he answers, diverting his gaze from Geralt’s when he sees the way Geralt’s gold eyes go wide with terror. “You said a lot of things, but that’s the one that sticks out the most, my dear.”

Geralt flops backward on the bed. “Fuck.” He says the word so hatefully, so brutishly, that fright bubbles up in Jaskier’s stomach and spills over like hot wax onto the floor.

“Don’t worry, Geralt,” he says, laughing, and stands from the windowsill. “I know it was the wine speaking for you, and I hold no ill thoughts in my mind for you after last night.”

Geralt brings in a very loud, very exhausted breath, and says, “It wasn’t.”

Jaskier blinks. “Pardon?”

“It wasn’t the wine, Jask.” He turns his head on the pillow and looks at Jaskier solidly, firmly. “I wasn’t that drunk.”

Jaskier frowns. “Are you—“ he begins, and then the words sink in, and he is moving forward and kneeling on the bed and finding Geralt’s face with his hands, holding that strong jaw with his palms. “Geralt, darling, I need you to look me in the eyes and use your words.”

“Jaskier.” He huffs a fond laugh and shakes his head, dislodging Jaskier’s hold on his face. “Jaskier, everything I said to you is the truth.” He wiggles away, putting some space between them; he sits up on the bed and hangs his head, sighing. “I didn’t want to tell you. Like that, at least.”

“Geralt?”

Geralt lifts his head and faces him once more; the smile on his face is sardonic and ugly, and Jaskier wants to never see it again. “I love you, Jaskier,” he says, sober and half-hearted, "and I’m sorry you found out because of a batch of wine.”

Jaskier walks on his knees closer to Geralt, till they are level with one another. “There’s nothing to apologize for, my dear,” he swears, finding Geralt’s hands with his and interlacing their fingers.

Geralt scoffs. “I’m having a hard time believing that,” he sneers, but he doesn’t tug his fingers free from Jaskier’s.

Jaskier pulls a face, upset that Geralt doesn’t believe him, that Geralt isn’t understanding what Jaskier is trying to say, that the feelings he holds are mutual, have been for quite some time, and then he remembers that Geralt speaks through actions, like sharing his dinner around the campfire and nuzzling his face into Jaskier’s neck, and not words like Jaskier.

“Then believe this, dear heart,” he says, and moves forward, and crowds in, and kisses Geralt.

At first, the touch is timid and messy; their noses knock and Geralt’s mouth tastes sour. And then Geralt makes a noise in the back of his throat, primal and punched-out, and he frees his hands from Jaskier’s and brings them up to tangle his fingers in Jaskier’s hair, holding Jaskier still as he kisses him.

And kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him, till the two of them are breathless and their mouths are red.

Geralt leans back, just a bit. “Jaskier?” he speaks, nearly soundless, with an undertone of utter mystification. 

Jaskier smiles so big his cheeks ache. “You foolish, oblivious, enchanting man.” Jaskier kisses him again, just because he can. Geralt meets him eagerly. “I adore you.” He says the words against Geralt’s lips, lifting and crawling into Geralt’s lap. “I have loved you for years.”

“You don’t mean that,” Geralt denies, but he’s holding Jaskier against him, on top of him, and kissing along Jaskier’s jaw as if it’s his sustenance. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.” Jaskier brushes his fingers through Geralt’s loose hair, smoothing out knots that snag. “I can’t believe you never noticed.”

“Of course I didn’t.” Geralt pushes his face into the hollow of Jaskier’s throat and breathes in, as if he can pull Jaskier into his body like this. “You never stayed.”

Jaskier grips Geralt’s hair, tight, and moves him so that they can see one another’s eyes. “I didn’t know it was wanted,” he explains, and he hopes Geralt can see everything in his eyes that he can’t find the words to say at the moment. “I always came back to you, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Geralt smiles. “Yes, you did.” He winds his arms around Jaskier’s waist and tips backward till the both of them are lying on their sides in the bed, facing one another. His fingertips dance delicately across the angle of Jaskier’s jawline, absolutely reverential in his adoring touch. He laughs, delighted, and presses down on the dimple in Jaskier’s chin until his mouth is open so Geralt can suckle his tongue. “I can’t believe you never knew.”

Jaskier snuggles into Geralt’s broad chest, nosing about until he finds his home, right on top of Geralt’s abnormally quick heartbeat. “I knew you cared for me,” he says into Geralt’s shirt. “I just never dared to hope it was the same way I cared for you.”

Geralt whines, almost. “Come here and let me kiss you some more.”

He draws Jaskier’s lips back to his and they kiss deeply, with abandon—they are alone in this bed together and nobody can touch them or take them away from one another. There’s no need to hurry, to rush, and they know this, so it’s the excitement of finally getting to have one another in this capacity that has Geralt rolling over and pulling Jaskier atop him. 

Jaskier goes where his witcher directs him, delighted to be manhandled in such a gentle, tender way; he holds Geralt’s face in his hands and licks inside Geralt’s mouth as if this is his last meal. “I have thought about this every night for nearly thirty years,” he confesses against Geralt’s mouth. 

Geralt laughs in the back of his throat. His hands slide up from Jaskier’s waist, scratching his back deliciously through the thin fabric of his chemise, and then down, until they are resting just above the swell of Jaskier’s bottom. “What else did you think of?” he asks, cupping Jaskier’s ass and squeezing once, hard, before letting go.

Jaskier bites his lip at the startled, thrilled noise that threatens to permeate the small space between them. “I’m afraid if I tell you we will be here for a few days longer,” he says, chuckling, as he covers Geralt’s forehead in butterfly soft kisses. 

“I think that’s okay,” Geralt decides. He bucks up, easily, and rolls Jaskier beneath him. He shifts about until he is between Jaskier’s legs, cradled between his hips, and oh, _oh_ , to be between these thighs is the closest thing to nirvana Jaskier ever expects to reach. “We deserve a bit of time to ourselves.”

“You are,” Jaskier says, twirling his arms around Geralt’s neck and bringing him close, “wonderfully correct, dear heart.”

He grins, happily, and Geralt kisses the laughter from his mouth. 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)


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